fractures

I have an art piece that I want to do... but I lack the time and resources. Well, I have a lot of art pieces that I want to do and I could list all of those, but that would make me too sad. However, this one is particularly relevant today.

I want a pane of glass that I can intentionally stick a photograph to, let set with goop, and then tear off leaving a partial of the photo (a portrait of some emotive design likely emphasizing the face). Then I want to smash the pane so that the glass spiders. ...and then I have to find a way to keep it together after that.

It sounds pretty simple when I read it. I guess it is. Maybe I just want to smash things. Glass is pretty satisfying.

This piece comes out of living in too many unrelated spheres. It comes from quarantining certain parts of life from others, intentionally or unintentionally. And trying to live in that tension. For some people, it is that distinct loneliness they feel either because their church does not get them and/or their life outside of church does not. Usually both. Or two groups of friends. Or two homes. Whatever it is...it causes this chasm to open wide and you find yourself called to either side, but mostly residing somewhere deep inside it for fear of leaving something of yourself behind upon choosing a side.

And for me, I am caught between the abstractions and philosophizing of my starving muse...and the aircraft hangar. And I love them both for their own reasons. More than that, I do not know who I would be without either. In writing that, I want to rebel and resist definition, but it is useless. The former, is my lifeblood. It is how I think and how I see the world and when I ignore it, I become frighteningly mechanical and somehow less human. The latter is this perhaps overly romanticized dream that I have built for more than seven years. By the time I get to actually being able to learn to fly, it will be well nigh a decade.

Take into account that those were extra formative years in my life and aviation is inextricably part of my identity. Where else would I go? What else would I do? It is theoretically possible, but it would be a divorce with far reaching implications. Divorcing one's metaphorical DNA is a procedure that has never done anything but boost the pharmaceutical industry.

But I need to know if I can build dreams from schematics. If I can keep one foot in both worlds without falling and failing. Can I set my poetry and paintings between my FARs and Aeronautical Dictionary?

Beyond than that, what if I have romanticized flight? Is it possible that I could chase this all the way past every imaginable and tangible obstacle only to be disappointed because I was infatuated with an idea rather than the reality itself? I do not give myself over to love such fragile things easily. I am too timid for that. But I am afraid that this is a lost cause. Even if it is a false love, it is one I carry most fiercely and will never be rid of except perhaps by the very disappointment I fear. Quite simply I am in too deep.

But I knew all of that. This is not new. I wish it was. Then it would not carry the shame of familiarity. But I return here again and again and again. I know how it will end each time. I will climb out. I go do my homework and pass my tests with varying quality and questionable worthiness. And there is grace in time because she keeps moving even when we are not watching. Despite our bickering as to how quickly or slowly she should be going, she keeps the same pace.

So I know how today will end, but I still chafe against these worries. And I know I will be here again. I am creature of habit like everyone else. But I do long for the day when all of me is in agreement. When the tension is gone because who I want to be, is. And I may well be waiting into eternity for that, but time brings that nearer.

ALL of that to say just this: It helps to realize that the schism is less my own mistake today with a solution that I am overlooking and more a matter of groaning as we wait for eternity. It is good to remember. These fractures have their beginnings in the tension between now and eternity. There is an end. But it is not my responsibility. Two kinds of rest.

The irony is that for the past week I have not been able to get past the first few verses of Hebrews. Conspiracies.

new things

A few days ago, I sent this shirt in the mail to my dearest Lauren. Lauren needs it because she wanted fabric for a quilt to remember some of her good friends by...and our song is the 80's hit "Heart Breaker" performed by Pat Benatar. I have been meaning to use this for some kind of art, because... I don't need it anymore.

Originally, this shirt made me laugh. It was a gift from a friend because she knew that I wanted it. And, while I still think the shirt is funny and have days where I want to wear it around... my life philosophy does not have room for it anymore.

There are two parts to any kind of love that lasts whether it is romantic, friends, or family. It would seem that as a habit, men and women like to excel at only one of them; but it does not work that way. It is easier to always give or always take. It is safer too, but it is not real love and it is not humanity as it should be.

I think it can be more difficult in a lot of ways to let yourself be loved than to give love away, though both options are equally empty without their counterpart. It opens you up to scrutiny and keeps you open for disappointment. It means you have the ability to hurt someone else with whatever they find inside of you; and you have to trust that they are not going to just leave after that, especially if they have the right. It is complicated and messy and ... uncomfortable.

But I am learning. And that has been my journey for awhile now. Learning first that emotions are not inefficient. I will feel everything. Learning how to let myself fail. I will do it again. Learning to forgive people who will not stop hurting me. It will be worth it. They are worth it. And my own freedom is worth it. Learning to trust God. He really does know what He is doing. Learning to trust myself. Learning to accept that people love me. But more than that, that I need people to love me. And when I do not deserve it, I need it that much more.

I get that God loves me. That is who He is. And I cannot do anything about that.

It bewilders me to pieces and makes me feel small and unworthy, but so full gratitude and joy too.

I do not yet understand the mystery of God giving us varying forms of community to love us. All these imperfect, selfish people trying... and He is going to make something beautiful of it? It seems like the hardest way to do this. It feels like total, unrestrained chaos erupting past centuries, through millennia, straight into eternity.

...that is, it feels that way to me. But what have I made? Nothing, nothing at all. And if God can hold that chaos in hand, He is so much bigger than I have yet to discover, again. Or will discover next time. I am not surprised. I am getting used to this feeling. I even have learned to feel safe in it. It is just that, I am gaping at mysteries so much larger than myself, and I cannot help but stare.

collage

This is my favorite place to watch sunsets within easy walking distance of my Portland home. Sunsets here are different then they are in Kalispell...mostly in that they last longer and don't mix and mingle with the mountains. Mostly, I'm sharing this picture because I fell out of the tree on my way down after taking it...and I don't want that to be in vain. It's not a great shot strictly speaking, but I didn't take it because of its visual aesthetics.

Anyway, I am realizing more and more that I cannot remove creativity and art from my habits. With all of my mechanics classes and trying to train my brain to think in new patterns, I have not made the time I promised myself I would for art...consciously at least.

Art is so much a part of my lifeblood that it finds me. It is beginning to feel a bit inevitable--not that I mind. It just fascinates me. Between this inevitability and my celiac disease/gluten allergy adventure, food has taken the brunt of my excess artistic energy. I keep inventing, mixing, marinating, frying, baking, boiling and so on. It starts with a flavor or a texture I want...or a color or a shape. I do not always understand and I do not always succeed, but it keeps me sane. It keeps away the food depression of what I miss eating and it becomes an outlet. And it kind of took over my life, not in a bad way. It is just surprising how quickly and deeply adaptations can be made.

The photo is of my chicken marinade today. It has honey, vanilla, red wine vinegar, olive oil, cumin, paprika, red pepper, chili flakes, white vinegar, mustard, lemon juice, black pepper, and salt. It is special because I think I may have successfully made a meal just for me. I don't really know how to cook for one. Too much cooking for my sisters, for restaurants, for soup kitchen etc. Not that those are really bad...but when you realize that you can just as easily cook for twelve as for one... and then that cooking for 80 really isn't THAT much more difficult than twelve... cooking for one just does not make sense. It is expensive and inefficient. And it is easier to take care of others than just me.

But hey, I am learning discipline and a rearrangement of priorities. I am accepting that not eating gluten makes things more complicated. I am going to be the person who makes people feel uncomfortable and who makes group decisions a bit more cumbersome. It is counter intuitive and not at all what I ever would have chosen, especially for who knows how long. But that does not change anything. I need to take care of myself rather than make things easier or simpler and martyr myself. This is surprisingly difficult to persuade myself of on a daily basis.

Eve

I really miss bread today, for the phantom yet ubiquitous record. I want some with butter and honey seeping into it. There really is not a replacement. I am getting better though and recovering from my divorce with gluten, but that is not really relevant for today. Eve most definitely is.

This is Eve. On my comforter. She has been my constant companion and accountability for about three months now. Apparently, I can measure my life in art projects as I have been reduced to doing them at a ridiculously slow pace...especially given the simplicity surrounding her.

But the simplicity was important and needed to develop as it willed, carefully. So here she is. I still need to lacquer her or coat her with acrylic gel medium, that is for another pay check though. I think it is time to share her.

Eve is for my innumerable strong women who are living with circumstances and battles that they did not choose for themselves. For those who are fighting apathy and anger on the inside while fighting injustice and chaos from without. Not to mention lies on both sides. I have had the privilege of knowing more than my share, of leaning on them and holding them...and learning to see the world through their priceless eyes.

Eve is a woman cut out of the cardboard with the top layer still attached and twisting out and away from her in a swirl of petals. The petals make me think of my mom actually, in hindsight. She loves flowers and always says it is because Eve was made in the garden. The sunflower is special. Not only is it among my favorite flowers and one that has been a motif in my life for years now, but that particular one arrived to me over 600 miles in a package with cookies and other things from my sister. I love that she would do that and that she knows that it makes sense to me.

The flowers are also beauty--deep, real, and fleeting. And though a woman will outlive many flowers, are we much different? But more than that, is the idea represented in the question written along the side: Am I just another Eve? This is the question that I wrote on a sticky note and left on my bedroom wall until it became a painting.

I think it is an important question, obviously. But seriously, I know so many women wondering if there is a point to trying. Or if they are just another Eve preset for destruction. If she could not come through on one decision before corruption, why does anyone else hope to? There is so much shame and so much trying to be strong and taking on guilt that is not theirs to hold. Like we are trying to pay for a mistake that was never ours and we are taking responsibility because someone needs to and it is not out of our way. Not always, obviously, but often enough to be observed. Oh, there is so much more that could be said on that, but I will save it rather than risk beating a dead horse.

And so finally, the phrase that follows me and drags me back and down to wrestle with it again and again...and when it is not doing that, it quietly mocks me from its place on Eve in my room. We must love and lose or else lose more.

We have to keep on trying. We love unreasonable things. We love after being hurt and expect a different result. We get hurt. We do it again. We may learn and do it differently, but it never really loses the risk and danger that are inherent. We trust. We open ourselves up because it will be worth it when it is real and when it lasts. Because, when we shut ourselves away for the sake of safety or fear or strength, we lose our most valuable and beautiful component. We make ourselves hard and fortified and we lose access to our own hearts. We become a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy in regards to our fear that we will never escape Eve's mistake.

Hold on. Give me just one additional thought which I cannot take credit for:

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.

C.S. Lewis

There. That's Eve. And yeah, this is not really only for women...there are a lot of thoughts here that are without borders and confines. Yet, it is my women who hang heavily on my heart when I think about this for any length of time, and that is my artist's privilege and responsibility at work. Thank you.

onward! to life and living! ...

The last two weeks have been simultaneously so full of deeply good and beautiful things with people that I don't know how to tell that they bless me...that they really are the brothers and sisters that I tell them they are, each for a different reason....

And yet these two weeks have been so full of questions and hard things. Things that I do not *want* to rouse myself to do or think about. I know that I can, but that hardly seems to matter. These, among other unbeautiful things.

I have been having a sort of mid-college crisis just wondering if what I am doing is actually going to get me to where I hope to be. And every time God gives me just enough to go on. At this point, I am just trusting that I was in a better place holistically when I made the decisions that I did...and that God did not mislead me.

When I was talking to him on the beach, He just kept asking me what I really want. Honestly, all that I want is to fly, have a little sunshine, and never leave His sight...disregarding the impossibility of successfully leaving His sight because that is not the point. The point is that as long as He can see me, I will be ok. Because He is good. And I can build on that. I can trust that. Everything else works out after that.

I keep telling myself that. And I know it. And I believe it. But it doesn't take away the aches and metaphysical soreness that I want so badly to be rid of. I find myself chaffing against time and longing for eternity. So I made cookies. Goodbye cookies, specifically. Because home really is where the heart is and my heart is on a train that is leaving me mercilessly mile by mile and minute by minute. And I do not know when it will return. Maybe in August, if the stars align. Maybe for Christmas. Maybe. Or maybe it will be longer, but I do not want to think on that.

Restlessness pricks

then scratches

then gnaws at my feet

until I am walking.

walking. walking.

I set out

to pace the whole world

over and back

over and back

and back again.

I cannot be trusted

to come home

when I do not know

where home has gone to.

Moreover,

I am missing all my anchors

that may have fought

against these restless winds.

My sails are full of discontentment

My vessel has a ready crew

That has long been listening

To the songs the wind sings

To children and kites and birds.

But, ironically,

my heart is just not in it

my dear.

And that, is only

because you hold it.